


Like-Minded Men

by RestAssured



Series: Like-Minded Men Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry John, But we all do, Dirty Talk, John doesn't know, John-centric, Lonely John, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-reunion, Sherlock Apologizes, Slightly Dom!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:01:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1283677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RestAssured/pseuds/RestAssured
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four months after Sherlock's 'death', a lonely John Watson receives an email advertising 'seductive, intelligent conversation' with 'like-minded men'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like-Minded Men

The depression that befell John Watson in the aftermath of Sherlock Holmes’ death was a deep, complex sort that caused him to feel nothing until he tried to sleep. During the day, he went on with his life. He had to. One has to eat to survive, and to eat, one must have money, and to have money, one must work. So he worked, and that filled his head. And on his way home he’d buy food. And when the food was gone, he’d stare at his television or computer, seeing nothing and thinking very little. It was when he closed his eyes to sleep that he sunk. Only then did he feel out of control—only then did he lay there and think _My God, My God, Why Did He Take Himself Away From Me?_

It was a horribly selfish thought. And John felt like he deserved a few of those, considering. But the more he asked the question, the more he felt his soul curling inward, deflating until there was nothing left but a tight little dried up knot.

There were nights he could sleep through it. If he’d worked himself tired. And then there were nights when he stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, or got out of bed and made a cup of tea and stared at his emails, hoping somehow, some way…

Oh, plenty of emails came. Fans, those who weren’t fans, the crazy ones who thought they _were_ Sherlock and the criminals who cackled at his demise. After the first few internet outbursts, he’d stopped responding. It was hard to be appropriately outraged on the internet—especially while under such serious media scrutiny.

More than one person still thought he was a liar.

Four and a half months in, while the whole world seemed to have gotten used to Sherlock’s demise and moved on, John Watson was still wide awake at three in the morning, staring at his emails.

He skimmed his eyes over the few usernames he recognized and immediately deleted their emails. Nothing worth it, nothing at all. Praise, Criticism, ‘ _I thought I saw Sherlock…_ ’

Nothing he wanted to deal with.

He deleted everything new, and stared at the screen for ten whole seconds, his mind wondering what else the world could possibly have to offer him. If there was no Sherlock, why the hell was he still here?

He was about to slam the computer shut when a new email popped into his inbox.

Narrowing his eyes, he stared at the username. _LateNightVoice_. And the subject? “Fifteen Minutes Free! Adult Conversations With Like-Minded Men…”

He snorted, rolling his eyes. One very short period of browsing gay porn sites last year, and he’s still getting spammed with offers like this. Amused, he clicked the email, and found it to be a classic ad, black ombre background with a shadowed male couple, both nude, both reaching for a strategically placed phone on a table in front of them. One was tanned and muscled, the other was pale and more lithe. The lettering, silver script, advertised “Intelligent, Seductive Conversation” with any number of men “Hot, And Aching To Talk Dirty To You”.

John snorted again. That sort of thing had always been too close to prostitution for his taste.

He shut his computer and resolved to make tea.

\--

Three days later, the email was still sitting in his inbox.

He’d deleted everything else. All the other superfluous nonsense, all the usual crap. Three days of work and food and no sleep, and the email was still there.

Was he that pathetic yet?

He clicked the link and found a website advertising men by ‘type’, and little buttons below each picture marked ‘Call’. The prices were…alright. For what they were.

Scrolling through the photos, he found a whole lot of very… explicit advertising, most of which he found boring. It all looked like the same cock, hard and shot from different angles on different bedspreads, no imagination. Some pictures of shadowed, frankly skinny, pectorals. Some of just lips, just feet, just tented briefs… His phone was in his hand, and, quite frankly… He didn’t know whether he wanted to get off or hear someone else’s voice in his flat again.

He clicked a picture of a pair of pale wrists bound in rope.

\--

_“Hello… Who am I speaking with?”_

The voice on the other end of the call was warm, velvety liquid that went straight down John’s spine and made him sit up straighter. It was a voice that shook him. It made him think of blue eyes and smoke and everything he was trying to forget.

“… John.”

 _“Alright, ‘John’.”_ There was humor in the voice. As if it didn’t believe him, or it did but it found him amusing somehow. That was… fine. _“Call me Sean, if you like.”_

“Sean.” John confirmed, his fingers curling over the arm of his armchair. “Sean, I… haven’t done this before.”

_“… I’m glad to hear it.”_

“What?”

 _“Virgins are such a treat.”_ The voice purred, almost too quickly, and John found himself sputtering with laughter.

“I—Well, I—I’m not a _virgin_.” John sputtered. “I—I’ve _been_ with… people.”

There was silence for a moment, and John felt given away. But fuck, he was a doctor. He knew the mechanics. And… well, besides. He could hang up the phone if this went sour.

But the voice… God, it was like a drug, lulling him back into his chair as it murmured into his ear. _“Tell me why you called me, John? What made you look at my picture and stop?”_

“The… the picture?”

_“Yes. Which… That is, what made you choose my particular profile? What made you attracted to my picture?”_

“W-Well… I saw the hands—”

 _“The hands!”_ The voice perked up, as if John had given him the answer already. _“Ah, yes. What was it? The rope…?”_

“God, no!” John said fast, his body going straight in the chair. “No! I—Really, I—”

He cut himself off. He didn’t know what to say, honestly. God… This was so embarrassing. Here he was, lubricant on his coffee table, credit card locked into this moment, paying this voice for…

… Well. He _was_ paying for it…

“Your hands.” He said, his eyes falling to the picture, still displayed so prominently on his laptop. “They—They remind me of a friend I used to have.”

_“What’s his name, then?”_

John was silent for a second. “You can’t say anything.”

_“Why would I?”_

“N-Never mind. The name doesn’t matter.” John breathed out slowly. “You’ve been doing this a long time?”

 _“This isn’t about me.”_ The voice murmured, sounding lazy and sexy and, _God_ , all he could picture was Sherlock, sprawled over his couch, his arms dotted with nicotine patches. _“What do you want when you look at my hands?”_

John swallowed, his eyes closing as his head tipped back. “A time machine.”

There’re a few seconds of silence. And then John cleared his throat, his mind lost in a memory that he needed to get away from. Licking his lips, he mumbled. “I want you. I want you bowed on your knees, begging for forgiveness. I want you saying my name, over and over, apologizing for what you’ve done.”

 _“Oh John…_ ” The voice started after a second’s hesitation. _“Oh John, I’m so sorry. I… Please, you have to forgive me. Please. I can’t go on if you don’t forgive me, I—I need you. I need you, so much more than I ever—”_

“No.” John cut him off, his body tensing. “He’d never say that.”

There’s silence. And then, _“Please, John. Please. You have to forgive me. I—I didn’t want to… to hurt you. I—Please, John… I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”_

“I can’t forgive you.” John heard himself say. He let his head fall back completely as that voice twisted him up, turning him inside out with need. “I can’t. You _left_ me. You made me watch you… leave. You literally told me to stand there and watch you leave. I can’t forgive you for that, I… I fucking…” Squeezing his eyes shut, John took a long, shuddering breath. “I needed you. We could’ve changed everything, we could’ve _fixed everything_ , and you—”

 _“I know._ ” The voice whispered, sounding… slightly shaky itself. _“I know, I’m so sorry. You’ll never understand how sorry I am, I—_ ”

“I’m _still talking_.” John cut him off, his voice hard and his body shuddering with the impact of speaking it all aloud. He was probably scaring the man. He took a deep breath, his eyes still closed. He couldn’t stand the thought of opening them and finding his apartment empty, completely devoid of… well. “I _believed_ in you.” He whispered. “I _still_ believe you. I can’t even trust your last words to me, because I know they’re not true. They can’t be true, Sherlock, you never—”

He cut himself off. There was silence.

 _“John?”_ Came the voice, soft and tight with apprehension.

Fuck it all.

“I want you to apologize. For making your last words to me a lie. For not coming back when I’m clearly nothing without you. I want you begging for forgiveness, I want you begging for my _mercy_. Because when I’m through with you, I swear to God in heaven, you’ll realize that bastard who took you away is _nothing_ compared to me. _Nothing_. Shame’s your motivator, is it? Then I’ll make you feel it until you feel nothing else. You’ll be begging for me in your _sleep_. Now _tell me_ how sorry you are.”

The voice takes a breath. _“So sorry. So, so fucking sorry, John. Every single day. I—I am so sorry for everything. Every single thing I did. Please. I can’t go on until you forgive me. I can’t even think without you. It’s gotten so hard, just to **think** … I never understood how—how people could lose their minds like this until now. Please. Please forgive me. Everything I said, I—I’m sorry that I had to.”_

“Are you on your knees?” John asks the voice, his mind on the image of Sherlock… Damn it all, Sherlock, his long limbs folded as he bowed to his knees, saying those things.

 _“God, Yes, John… Can’t you see? I’m so sorry. I’m so bloody sorry… I need you to forgive me, I need you to. Please._ ”

God… Those words from that voice… John thought he would break down. But he swallowed, trying to focus. This was an outlet. This was a release. This wasn’t the real thing, no matter how real it sounded, because the real thing was fucking _dead_.

“Good.” He whispered, trying to control himself. “Good. God, I fucking miss you. Every day. Every day, I wake up and beg for this to be a nightmare. For you to just… just walk back into my life, and tell me it was all part of your bloody plan. I miss everything—I miss your damn superior attitude, your mood-swings, your insane aptitude for finding trouble to go with your damn mysteries… I was so _fucking_ in love with you…”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. John bit his lower lip. “I must sound so pathetic right now.” He whispered, falling out of his dream.

 _“John…”_ The voice said, soft, but still deep and petrifyingly right for this moment, still pulling him back in like this whole thing was more than a dream. _“I… I know I… I was an idiot. I should’ve… Please. Please, John. Please forgive me. I am so sorry, every part of me is sorry. I’ll do anything. God, John, anything._ ”

 _Then come home to me…_ John wanted to say. He sucked his lower lip between his teeth, his fist curling hard around the armrest.

 _“Do you want my hands on you, John? You can have them._ ” The voice whispered, sounding soft and desperate and so remarkably like the man John wanted that he could only listen. _“Do you want them tied? I’ll let you tie them. I’ll never go away again, I’ll never leave you if you keep me this way. You can have me just like that. Bound up, on my knees, at your mercy. Please, John. I’ll beg all day and night.”_

“Too bloody right, you will.” John hissed, his fingers clutching at the arm of his chair. “You’ll beg until I forgive you, and then you’ll go back to being the same selfish prat you’ve always been. No. No, this time you’re not getting off that easy. You’re going to be begging forever. You’ll be on your knees, trussed up, looking up at me, and for once in your life you’re not going to think of anything but me. What I’m doing to you, what you’re going to give me for _fucking_ up my heart.”

John’s breath came in a shuddering wheeze, and he looked down at the lubricant on the coffee table. And then he snatched it up, his eyes staring at it like it’s this… wonder. How did it get here? When did he decide that this was going to happen? He knew all the answers, and yet it amazed him.

And yet, the voice pressed him. _“I’ll do anything, John. Anything you want. I’m going fucking insane without you, I—I’ll do whatever you need me to.”_

“Would you suck my cock?” John asked, his voice rough with the very thought of it. His gorgeous friend’s mouth, those ever-moving lips wrapped taut around the nob of his cock, eyes staring up at him pleadingly, begging for his forgiveness. “Would you? Would gagging on me finally make you shut your mouth and _see_?”

 _“God, yes._ ” The voice whispered, throaty with heat. _“I’d suck you. I’d do anything for you. Please, John. Please—I—”_

“Tell me…” John’s cock pressed up against his sleep pants, and he looked down at it, slightly unsure. Fuck it all over again. He pulled it out, letting it curve in against his ratty shirt, the hardness shocking him even more than his own tough talk. “Tell me what you’ll do for me. Tell me how you’ll make me forgive you.”

The voice went low. _“I’ll suck your cock. God, I’ll… I’ll take it, I’ll lick every inch, then open my throat for it. I’ll… I’ll look up at you, and make love to your cock, and beg for your mercy with every fiber of my being. I’ll earn your forgiveness with every inch of my body, John, I swear, I will.”_

The cap popped off the bottle, and John let the phone rest against his shoulder as he poured a dollop of lube into his palm. Immediately, he wrapped that palm around himself. “Tell me all the things you’ll do for me… God, I miss you. I miss your mouth, running off like a faucet about things you have no business knowing. I look around and I see people and I just _hear_ you sometimes…”

 _“I hear you all the time, John._ ” The voice whispered. _“All the bloody time. I can’t get you out of my mind, you just… Are you touching yourself?”_

John paused. He looked down. The fantasy faded at the edges. “I… thought that was the point.” He cleared his throat. His hand paused on his cock.

_“… Yes… I was just… God, John, I can hear it in your voice… you’re so hard imagining me, and I’m so hard imagining you… Please, John. Please. I’m so sorry…”_

“How sorry? How fucking sorry?”

_“Oh God—I just… I think about you all the time, but I can’t… I just see your face, and I can’t do it until… I won’t until…”_

That voice was strained with arousal, with regret, and very suddenly, John could almost swear it was all real. He could almost… See… Fuck, the image wouldn’t leave him. Sherlock, begging for his forgiveness, begging so that he could _come_ …

“Touch yourself, Sherlock.” He said the name again, no longer hesitant. This was his fantasy, damn it. He could have it his way. “Let me hear you.”

The sharp intake of breath made him open his eyes. And he looked down at himself, his cock huge in his hand, red at its nob. Slowly, he drew his hand up and down the shaft, listening closely as the voice on the other hand let out a soft sound of pleasure, the slick answer of skin on lubed skin low over the line. _“I’m touching it. Can you hear it? Can you hear me touching myself for you? Oh God, John, all I want to do is make it up to you… I’ll do it in every way I can… I’ll suck you, I’ll fuck you, I’ll ride you like a thoroughbred and make you come until there’s nothing left in you. I swear it. I’ll make it all up to you, everything. Oh fuck, tell me what you’re doing…”_

“I’m touching myself.” John whispered, his hand working over his cock, head back and mouth half-open, breathing out soft little noises. “Oh Christ, please… Please… I can feel you…” The whole world was blurring at the edges, and fuck, he hasn’t been this close in such a short time-frame since the army. “I’m touching… my big, fat cock. It’s so hard for you, just imagining what you’ll do when you… Oh God, don’t stop touching yourself, I want to hear it.”

The sound of those ragged breaths, the sharp moans that filled his ear made John’s touches all the more urgent. _“God…_ ” The voice whispered, and he knew the pace and picked up. It was the most delicious feeling, hearing that voice, seeing that image in his mind. He felt like he was _with_ him… Like… His presence was _there_.

“Fuck…” John whispered. “Fuck, tell me… Tell me…”

“ _Oh God, John, I want you. I’ve always wanted you, **fuck**_ \--!”

And with a sharp intake of breath, a long, drawn out groan and one more utterance of his name, the voice on the other end most definitely came.

John’s own vision greyed out, and he squeezed his cock, and he whispered “Sherlock--!” Low and smooth as he came with a choked off cry.

There was silence. Slow, heavy breaths. And then the voice whispered, _“Did you… Did you enjoy yourself John?_ ”

John breathed in. He pressed his lips together and tried to get his head back. And then he muttered, “Yes, Sean. Yes. Thank you. I… I will… I’ll call again. In the future.”

There was more silence. When the voice spoke again, he spoke low, tactful. Steady. “ _Well, I will be happy to service you any time. Goodnight, John_.”

John sighed softly. “Goodnight, Sean.”

He hung up, somehow feeling like a ghost had just left the room. And when he looked around, he felt his heart twist. Back to reality.

\--

The next morning, on his day off, John checked his bank account to find that no money had been taken out by LateNightVoice. He went to his email and clicked the link again.

The page refused to load, and when he tried the link again, it seemed the page did not exist.

He tried the number he dialed the night before, and found it had been disconnected.


End file.
